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She looked over at him. “No. But you promise that it will last through sickness and health, through richer and poorer. Skip the actual words of the ceremony. What it all comes down to is that when you marry, you vow that you will put the other person first.”
His heart, already wretchedly low, sank further.
“If you could,” she said quietly, “if you could take the past back, as easily as you wound up a spool of thread, would you keep quiet about what you’d discovered about Anthony?”
He wanted to say he would. Oh, damn, he wanted to. If he’d kept quiet, if he’d said nothing at all, if he’d simply sat to one side like a useless lump and kept his discoveries to himself, her father would have gone free. She would have had her Season and he would have married her and they would be up to their ears in children at this moment, and oh, God, how he wanted that. He wanted it so much he could taste it.
But.
But he would have had to remain silent. Every day that he woke up, he would have known that her brother—his best friend—was a traitor. He would never have been able to let that knowledge go. What if Anthony had done something that threatened his family? His children? It would have been like a blade of ice between them. He would always have known that what he had with Judith was stolen.
Lies and falsehoods made a poor basis for a marriage.
“No,” he finally said. “No. I wouldn’t.”
She nodded. “I don’t blame you for it. Not anymore.” She gave him a sad smile. “You could hardly do anything else. But I believe that when you marry, you must be able to put the other person first.”
“In the past…”
“Not the past.” She looked away. “That’s the thing, Christian. You will never be first for me. I must think of Benedict, of Theresa. I don’t even know where Camilla is. My family must always come first.”
“I know. I don’t care.”
“What if Benedict decides one day that Anthony was right, and he too…” She shook her head. “What then?”
He had no answer, none that she would want to hear.
He tried another tack. “Judith, no man could meet your criteria.”
“I don’t expect anyone could,” Judith said quietly.
Hence the reason she’d allowed this to go so far. He understood it all too well, now. He’d been her one taste of the forbidden fruit.
A slow coil of anger began to burn deep inside him. Nobody ever asked the damned fruit if it wanted to be forbidden.
Judith stood. “Marriage means something to me. It means that I promise to put you before all others. I love you, Christian—I love you too much to make that promise knowing that it is false.”
“And too little,” Christian said, “to make it true.” Her eyes met his. She didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to. That much was clear.
She stood in front of him, her skin bare. He wanted to hold her so closely that she couldn’t walk away. But his arms had never been able to stave off reality.
It hurt. God, it hurt. It was like waking from a golden dream only to discover that it was all a lie.
Judith reached for her gown.
“Let me help,” he said.
When a dream ended, there were only two choices. You could burrow under the covers and try to recapture it, replaying the fragments of false memory over and over, pretending it had actually happened. Or you could be a man and face the day, however cold it was.
So he did up the buttons of her gown. He found his trousers, his coat. And when she said it was time for him to leave, he went.
It didn’t matter.
That was what Christian told himself as he stood at the window of his office, the curtains open wide, looking down at the park. Behind him, his man rustled papers.
“A curious list you’ve given me,” Mr. Lawrence said. “What is this list again?”
Christian had been holding his secrets close. “Just some people I should like to talk with. Have you discovered their whereabouts?”
“I have.”
“Then let me hear it.”
Once, he had told himself that all he wanted was Anthony’s journals. He’d wanted to make a list of the men Anthony thought deserved justice, to see what he could do. Now that Christian had seen the names, he suspected that what he could do would not be satisfying.
Nothing would feel satisfying if Judith couldn’t forgive him. He’d told himself that he wasn’t doing any of this with the prospect of reward. That all he wanted was to right past wrongs.
And look—the Worths were well. He’d helped her in her search for Camilla. He’d sent out advertisements. He’d assisted her in ascertaining the truth about her solicitor, and the money had been returned to her family.
The Worths were well. His dreams were losing their power. Oh, he still had them—but with every step he’d taken forward, he was learning to fall back asleep again. What else could he ask for?
Her, his heart whispered.
“Of the thirty-six men you identified,” Mr. Lawrence said behind him, “I have information regarding twenty-nine.”
“Go on,” Christian said. “I’m listening.”
He was. It was no surprise that he’d fallen in love with Judith again. He’d never fallen out of love with her, and over the years, she’d become…more. More beautiful. More capable. More sure. More of everything he respected. She’d become so much that she scarcely had need of him.
“First,” said Mr. Lawrence, “Mr. Alan Wilding, late of Wilding and Wilding Transportation—now bankrupt. Second, Mr. Jeffrey Clawson, living in Bristol under reduced circumstances.”
Lists. Lists were soothing, even now. Maybe he could make a list of ways to forget Judith, something numbered from one to ten. One. He could… Um.
Um about covered all his ideas. He’d have to populate items two through ten with similar throat-clearing. Ah, perhaps. Ahem. Everything except agh—that was reserved for legal chicanery.
“Three. Lord Palmerston, deceased some months past. Four, Mr. Lyle Wilson, bankrupt and a suicide.”
Christian was trying to make an impossible list. He was never going to forget Judith, no more than he could forget his sums or his childhood. All he could do was move past her.
“Five. Mr. William Shoreditch.”
“Let me guess,” Christian said. “He’s living in some sort of reduced circumstances.”
“Debtor’s prison,” Mr. Lawrence said.
Strange. More than strange.
Christian turned back to him. He had been paying attention after all. “Are any of these men still in trade?”
Mr. Lawrence frowned. “Five or six.”
Strange did not cover it.
The hair on Christian’s arms prickled. For a moment, a snippet of one of his old dreams came back to him—a remarkably vivid image of him reaching over the deck of a ship. Of grasping wha
t he thought was Anthony’s hand. Of looking into his own face.
He exhaled. “How likely is that, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say, sir, having conducted no extensive surveys. But it seems somewhat improbable. What is this a list of again?”
“Just some men,” he said. “Men who were known to be involved in trade with a company that has asked me to invest.” Christian held out a hand. “There’s no need to continue. Clearly, investment would not be a good idea.”
Mr. Lawrence smiled and handed over the papers. “I should say not.”
This is not a good idea. If Christian had any sense, he’d stop here. He would ask himself no more questions. He would burn the list and never think about it again.
But it was…unusual. So many of them had been ruined, bankrupted, or otherwise imperiled. It was…no, not unusual. Unlikely. Unimaginable.
Unbelievable, even.
It was almost as if someone had the same list, and was systematically ruining…
His breath caught. It was exactly as if someone had the same list, and was systematically seeking vengeance on the worst players.
Judith hadn’t the means, and she hadn’t realized Anthony’s journals would allow anyone to construct such a list. Only one other person could have known these names.
“Agh.” Christian’s knees suddenly felt weak.
Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat. “My lord?”
For a moment, Christian could see himself in a dream, looking at Anthony.
Who are you? Anthony asked.
Christian didn’t know. He felt himself reaching for his own hand. Grabbing hold. Wondering whether he should keep holding on, or if he should let go.
He’d ruined everything once, but he hadn’t any choice in the matter. He didn’t want to have to do it again. But what else was he to do?
Then he remembered Judith—her smile, when he coaxed a laugh from her. Her clockwork mice. That annoyed shake of her head when her sister burned scones. The way she’d looked at him when she sent him away for good.
He thought of Judith, and reason came back to him in a great gasp.
“Are you well, my lord?” Mr. Lawrence frowned at him.
